The Man With A Frozen Heart
by BitOfAHermit
Summary: Is there a set deadline? A moment in our lives when we wake up and say, yes, okay: I'm ready. No. You're never old enough for this.  Jack's perspective on The Truth behind Your Eyes


_My second attempt at writing, so please don't hate me. Ianto Jones. Jack Harkness. Jack's perspective on The Truth Behind Your Eyes. Can be read as a follow on, or as a stand alone._

_The Man With A Frozen Heart_

_Summary: Ianto Jones dies in Jack's arms. _

_Is there a set deadline? A moment in our lives when we wake up and say, yes, okay: I'm ready. Is there someone sitting in an office somewhere? Arranging, organising, categorising our lives. Is it a signature on the bottom of a page? A ticked box? Is it someone's job to pull the strings, leaving the world to unravel as it may?_

_Rating: K overall, this chapter: PG 13 for angst, angst, and more angst._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Ianto or Jack. As soon as I do I'll be sure to tell you. _

_**twtwtwtw**_

'It's all my fault'. My fault. Everything. My fault.

His voice is quiet in the almost surreal darkness, a calm after the storm: 'No, it's not'.

My Ianto: loyal until the e - . . .God, save me: I'm speaking in past tense. His cheeks are already paling. Leaving him an almost incandescent white shining in the darkness. His face is strained, pain masking his features.

Short, shallow breaths make his chest rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. My heart seems to beat in time. A tempo. Rise and fall, rise and fall, marking the minutes, the seconds we have left.

I reach out. He feels so cold. Cold as ice. Cold as de - . . . I can't even think the word. The hollow feeling begins to fill the pit of my stomach, as it always does before the dark swallows me. Normally a welcome friend, pulling me from the pain of the world into a quiet embrace. If only for a few moments. Usually I long for that release. But not today. Not now. Not like this.

'Don't speak', I whisper. His eyes are losing their focus. The pupils seem to eat into the white. His lips. A blue tinge lines their fullness. I run my hands over his cheekbones. Lord. He's so cold. I hold my hand to his cheek, willing my remaining warmth into him.

'Shhh', I say, 'save your breath'. My bones feel like dead weights, pulling me under. Pulling me down, away from him.

'I love you Jack'. No.

'Don't'. It's almost an automatic response after all these years. I try to remember the reason I became so fucking uncaring. It seems so long ago now, a distance time. A distance place. Jack Harkness. The man with a frozen heart, unable to admit he feels emotion. I can't remember the last time I felt this way. Not even _he_ had made me feel like this.

_Tell him. Tell him_: a whisper in the back of my mind. _Tell him_. I open my mouth to say the words, but the hollow feeling seems to reach up my throat. Catch the breath. Steal the words from my mouth.

His eyes close. A tear slips from the corner of his left eye, running down his face. He seems so young. Almost a child. Barely old enough for the nightmare that has been the past three days.

But then who is old enough for this. Is there a set deadline? A moment in our lives when we wake up and say, yes, okay: I'm ready. Is there someone sitting in an office somewhere? Arranging, organising, categorising our lives. Is it a signature on the bottom of a page? A ticked box? Is it someone's job to pull the strings, leaving the world to unravel as it may?

God forbid it be a stamp. _No_. I decide: you're never old enough for _this_.

He has been so still. His eyes closed. I freeze.

'Ianto? Ianto! Ianto, stay with me. Ianto, stay with me, please! Stay with me, stay with me! Please!' My voice cracks. My heart stops.

'Hey, it was good . . . yeah?' His voice is so faint. Barely a whisper, yet it is there. I start breathing again. He winces. I think it's meant to be a smile. A joke. My Ianto. Still trying to make it all better.

'Yeah', I say, trying to smile too. I feel tears run down my cheeks.

'Don't forget me', he whispers.

'Never could', I say. But something in my face seems to betray me. An almost panicked expression crosses his face. I can see it in his eyes: he doesn't believe me.

I could almost laugh at it. Almost. Why would _I_ believe me? When have I ever given him a reason to believe me? When I disappeared for three months, gone with _him_ in The Year That Never Was? When shards of my past turn up unexpectedly, like the pieces of a shattered mirror? Left to be covered by dust, yet still as sharp. Memories purposefully buried under the blankets of time, left to grow old and hopefully be forgotten.

I wouldn't believe it, if I were him.

'A thousand years time, you won't remember me'. I can seem the pain, etched on his face, burnt into the back of his eyes.

'Yes, I will, I promise, I will'. How could I forget him? My Ianto. Constant. Warm. Making me feel so completely _alive_. An old man, made young again by his very presence. His touch. His kiss.

His eyes drift close; I see his face go slack. God. No. My voice breaks. 'Ianto . . . Ianto?'

'Ianto, don't go. Don't leave me, please. Please, don't go! Ianto!' _I won't let you take him!_ I scream to the hollowness._ Ianto. You can't leave me! Ianto. Please: I love you._

I feel slip away, feel him go. A slight sigh escaping his cold lips. I lean over him. Press my mouth into his. Praying to any power in the universe that he will wake. It worked before.

He just lies there. Cold. So cold.

No. No! _Ianto. Ianto. Ianto._ His name is a mantra, keeping the hollowness from overwhelming me for a few moments. But it is a losing battle.

It drags me from the warmth, from life. From Ianto. My Ianto.


End file.
